The hallways of Jujutsu High were quiet in the late evening, steeped in shadows and humming softly with residual cursed energy from hours of training, missions, and movement.

It was a rare calm — the kind that settled after the chaos had ended but before anyone had acknowledged the peace.

You’d been finishing up your tasks, walking through the corridor outside the training yard when you heard it — a soft, unexpected thud, the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground.

You turned just in time to see Megumi Fushiguro stumbling, his balance gone, his lean frame collapsing forward, fast and graceless.

He didn’t even try to catch himself properly — no cursed energy reinforcement, no reflexive control. Just a sudden, awkward fall.

And he landed directly on you.

There was a sharp grunt, his arm slamming against your shoulder, his weight pressing heavily into your chest for a heartbeat before both of you hit the ground in a tangled heap.

He didn’t say anything. But the pain was obvious. The way his breath hissed through his teeth, how his fingers tightened into the fabric of your sleeve, the tremble in his posture — all of it pointed to one thing: he was hurt.

You shifted, careful, trying not to jostle him, but Megumi leaned harder into you before he could stop himself.

His body was stiff with tension, his jaw locked, but you could see it clearly now — the way his arm hung limply, shoulder turned wrong. The scrapes across his temple. A bloom of blood just beneath the edge of his collar.

He hadn’t just tripped. Whatever he’d been doing before, it had gone badly. Without a word, you adjusted your arms beneath him and began to lift him.

He didn’t protest. That was how you knew it was bad.

Megumi never asked for help. Never allowed himself to show weakness. He was the type to walk off sprains and bruises like they were background noise.

So the fact that he didn’t push you away — didn’t mutter something sarcastic or stiffly insist he was “fine” — meant he was closer to collapse than he wanted to admit.

You half-carried, half-dragged him down the hall, one arm around your shoulders, the other braced awkwardly around his waist.

He wasn’t heavy — all lean muscle, wiry strength — but he sagged against you with a weight that wasn’t physical. Something weary. Something deeper.

His dorm was dim when you finally reached it, the light from the hallway casting long, fractured shadows across the floor.

You managed to get the door open with one hand, nudged it closed behind you with a foot, and eased him down onto the bed with careful effort.